If You Had Returned
by Leryline
Summary: Haytham discovers the existence of his and Ziio's child and returns to America to make amends... but will he be able to rectify his past or will something go terribly, terribly wrong?
1. Chapter 1

**Kaniehtì:io**

_Haytham… Kenway._

_This is what he told me his name was. How long ago he told me this, I cannot remember. It must have been years now. There was something strange about this man, something curious in his eyes and the way he moved: he was not like the other men who had approached our village. He looked the same and talked the same, but he was very different; I could tell from when I first met him._

_First of all, he desired to know my name. And I gave it to him._

_Haytham Kenway was special to me. I had shown him the cave and told him a story, and he had kissed me in the strange way white men do, and he had held me till I felt the earth against my back. His whispered words were not needed, but I appreciated them all the same; the svelteness of his tongue and the smooth licks of his speech were more comforting than arousing, though they did both. I do not – have never – know why he made me feel that way. I was wary of him, but I let him in all the same. I drew close to him, and he drew close to me in return, in the dangerous act of love. I have never trusted love._

_When he left and I found out I was with child the aching in my heart, the yearning for this man I barely knew, only grew. It was sated only by the thought of some piece of him living within me, some remnant of his memory that refused to be washed away by the growing tensions of this war the foreigners were fighting. I was alone, all that time, warmed only by the life in my belly._

_Ratonhnhaké:ton was a good child, if not a little audacious and irresponsible at times, always doing as he was told and accepting his responsibilities just like his father did, no matter how small the task. Every time I looked upon his face I was reminded of Haytham, though I no longer lamented over his absence. I had accepted that he had loved me in his own strange way, as I had loved him in mine. I knew he was probably well, if he had been keeping out of trouble, and I had a token of him with me always. His son. My son. _Our_ son._

_The notion of this unity still fills me with a dull happiness, even to this day. Though, with the constant threats to our village, I fear it shall not remain for much longer._

* * *

Ziio looked up absently at the entrance to the longhouse in which she sat. The ground was hard beneath her, and seeing as she had lost track of time, sitting and tracing symbols and strange words into the dirt, her abdomen felt a little numb. She glanced up with fiery eyes to see her son, little Ratonhahaké:ton, sitting in the arms of an old woman, who smiled a withered smile at Ziio.

"A good boy," the elder told her as she stood to collect her child. "Much like his mother."

Ziio smiled, collecting the boy up into her arms and holding him against her chest. He had only just learned how to walk, much to the amusement of the villagers. She thanked the old woman, who nodded placidly and left to go about her own business before the sun fully set.

Ziio, instead of moving back into the depths of the warm longhouse, retreated into the crisp evening air. It was early winter, the days growing colder and harsher, though no snow had yet fallen. Her thoughts still lingered on Ratonhnhaké:ton's father as she paced about the village with her son in her arms. The little boy made cooing noises up at her, quite happy to be in the gentle company of his mother again, his dark hair shining in the remaining light. It was such a beautiful colour: like Ziio's, but lighter. She looked at his hand against her arm and noticed the slight difference between the tones of their skin. She kissed the top of his head, finally releasing her thoughts of Haytham Kenway.

She and Ratonhnhaké:ton must have been out for longer than she'd realised, as darkness had set in about them, punctured only by the fires lit here and there within the village walls. They were beacons, casting wide webs of light across the earth and spitting sparks into the cool void of the sky accompanied by sweet, belching smoke. Shivering, Ziio grudgingly remembered the warmth of the longhouse, and navigated her way quickly across the village to take refuge from the oncoming night. Perhaps there would be the first snowfall of the season that night: there were dark, greenish clouds hanging low over the trees, creeping slowly towards them.

_Well,_ Ziio thought as she retreated into the golden light cast forth by the longhouse's central hearth, _we will be sheltered here._

Ratonhnhaké:ton was only barely awake, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Ziio lay him down to bed, kissing his forehead once before returning to her position by the fire. Outside the wind had picked up its pace, racing through the myriad of buildings like wild horses, howling through the air like wolves. The wind always was an eerie thing. The flames jumped suddenly before her as an unexpected gust flew down the stretch of sheltered ground, and then straightened out once more. _If only I was as resilient_, she thought with a deep sigh. _Spring back and remember nothing._ Late in the night she dragged herself to her bedding and slept like the dead until morning.

She was woken by the sound of her son crying. She had the softest cry she had ever heard from an infant, never having shrieked like she had heard some children do. Still, it was enough to wake her. The first thing she noticed was how cold she was – the fire had gone out so long ago as to leave no embers burning. Ratonhnhaké:ton was cold. She reached out, taking him up and pulling him against her bosom, to which he nestled in close and slowly stopped crying. Ziio lay back down, staring up at the high, thatched roof of their dwelling, feeling her sleepy son against her.

_What would it have been like if he had stayed?_ she wondered vaguely, not engaging herself with the thought, and certainly not letting herself imagine what it would have been like had Haytham remained to raise the child. She frowned. _A bad influence. That is all he would ever be._ And, in a way, she knew she was right. Though he had never mentioned anything to indicate any such thing to her, and though his acts of violence seemed somewhat justified (nothing she would not have done, at least), there was something about him that put her on edge. Not enough to deter her from him, but it was there all the same. _A bad influence_.

Ziio didn't drift off back to sleep – instead she watched as the sun spread its girth across the floor of the longhouse and over the slumbering bodies that lay within it. She had been right: it had snowed during the night. Already Ziio could hear the village children shrieking with delight at the first snowfall, leaping through the drifts and making shapes. The snowfall had evidently been very heavy, but the village had been prepared for it, and there was no love lost… everyone could only hope the thaw would hold out until spring. It was when the snow melted that the problems truly began.

Ratonhnhaké:ton had awoken from his sleep, and had begun to cry. Ziio sat up, still warm and creased from the bedding, and begun another day.

By the third day of snow a thin, hard crust had formed over the top of it from the constant thawing during the day and refreezing during the nights. It was treacherous, though the children delighted in breaking through it and trying to balance on top of it. For those who wished to navigate from one point to another, however, the snow was a different matter entirely. The men set about shovelling the snow and moving it to form wide paths, much to the relief of the residents, Ziio included.

* * *

A number of days later, the sky became obscured with storm clouds that had pregnant, green bellies. The light of the night was blocked out, and the clouds hung so low that the golden light of the fires could be seen absorbing into the sickly colour of them. The fires did not last long, as by a few hours after nightfall all the villagers retreated indoors to shelter themselves from the impending snowstorm.

For Ziio, and indeed many other members of the village, this wasn't unusual. It wasn't a foreign circumstance so much as to cause a panic, but there was a unanimous atmosphere of concern. The wind began to howl and tug at the buildings, the trees outside the village creaking under the strain. The sound of distant, splintering wood and the rushing of leaves, whispering promises of a violent storm, did not frighten Ziio. What frightened her was her son – her small son, not yet two years old, was susceptible to the cold and all the dreadful sicknesses brought with it. If there was a panic, and she lost him, he would be trampled. No matter how she looked at it, there was always some disastrous end. She held him close, unable to settle, and eventually fell into an uneasy slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Haytham Kenway**

_I think about her sometimes. More than sometimes… quite often, if I'm to be honest. I thought that by now I would have found a wife or started a family, but, alas, fortune has not been so kind. My occupation wouldn't allow for a family – at least, not a successful one._

_So why, then, does she keep returning to my mind? That Mohawk woman – that_ beautiful _Mohawk woman – from America? Gracious, the eyes she had – they seemed to see right into my soul, pierce me like some celestial being; I could not lie to her. Imagine if she had become my wife – what a thought indeed. If… if I ever _were _to take a wife, I must admit, I would take her. But, despite this, my ineffable ignorance of her… culture, as it were, binds me. I do not know how she would react to such a proposal. But hear me, speaking such nonsense of marriage to Mohawk women! I have far more important matters on my hands after the failure of the Precursor Site. I have returned to London, hard as it was, to share my bad news. Thankfully, it was received well by most (those whose reception mattered, anyway). We have agreed to continue our search with no less zeal._

_Though, I wonder… the woman – Ziio – after that night in the cave, did she conceive? The thought has rarely cross my mind, admittedly (I haven't the time to think much, these days); it is difficult for me to fathom. I have my family, the Templar Order, but it is… strange to think that there may be a child of my flesh and blood out there somewhere. It is a shame I do not have anything left of Ziio, as she perhaps has of me. All I have is her memory, and the presence of it in my mind will give me hope still… or so I can only pray_

It was getting terribly late – almost midnight, according to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room – but Haytham wasn't tired. His mind buzzed. A child! Could it be true? How great were the chances? He tried to call on his knowledge of the female anatomy, but realised he knew next to nothing about it, and abandoned the thought completely. He had left Boston, leaving his posse behind to continue their work concreting the Templars in the New World. He had left for London, another monumental trek across the Atlantic, with nothing but bad news and a heavy heart. Heavy for what? Was it his inability to access the vault, or was it the things he had to leave behind? Good, cooperative people who, perhaps, weren't beacons of moral purity, but were dedicated to the job and hard-working. A world so open to new ideas and thoughts, so susceptible to manipulation – no. Not manipulation. Haytham despised the word. Moulded. The New World was young enough to be the perfect material for moulding. So fresh and supple. And her. Ziio. He had to leave her in that unfortunate little place – he could have given her the life of a proper lady, had she returned with him. But he had never asked as much of her, and he knew she would never have accepted had he done so.

Haytham sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The candlelight was bad for his eyes, or so his doctor had told him, and his fatigue had quickly caught up with him. The slush of the London streets had risen to form frost across the windows; what dreadful weather. Haytham hated winter, especially in London. Picking himself up, he extinguished the candle on his desk and made towards the large four-poster standing in the middle of the room. My, it looked inviting. He removed his waistcoat and belt and boots, climbing in without bothering to change. He would do that later.

_He had been running for a long time. It felt like years, though it couldn't have possibly been for more than a minute or two. His sides ached, every single muscle in his body straining, and his breath came short. He had been drawn by the screams and the shrieks – though there were many, they were all of the same voice, gruesome sounds superimposed upon each other. It was unnerving, and had drawn him running. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it. But for now, the thought of the voice had slipped form his mind. He needed to stop running before he fell. He had to stop, but he couldn't._

_His lips parted and a name was torn from deep within him: he could feel himself say it, though he could not hear it, and therefore was unaware of what he had said. Who had he called?_

_Finally his legs gave out from under him and he staggered, by some miracle managing to stay upright. He looked down to find himself almost knee-deep in pure, white snow. To his left there were indents of many footprints, evidently those of children who had been running about sometime before. The depressions were being filled in with snow and were nearly invisible._

_There was silence. The screaming had stopped, much to Haytham's relief, but his concern only increased. He was well aware of what was indicated by silence after such racket – despite his protesting body, he persevered forward towards the strange, high stakes before him._

_It was a large fence – no, a wall. A wall surrounding some kind of small community; the place was utterly deserted. Suddenly, the air is split by a high, undulating wail. A child? Haytham could see no mother about – he couldn't see anybody, nor could he see any signs of recent activity. He traipsed through the snow, lifting his aching feet high so he didn't fall._

_Again, he uttered something. This time he knew he had cursed, but he hadn't heard it. Before him lay a small child, no older than three, swaddled in deerskin and lying in the snow. The child was crying weakly, its strength drained. Haytham's heart froze in his chest._

_Without much prior thought, the man reached down to take the child in his arms and hold it close against the incarnadine material of his waistcoat. Despite his state of undress, he wasn't cold at all._

"… _Haytham?"_

_Haytham turned. It was the voice who had been screeching just before – when he caught sight of the speaker, his throat constricted and his muscles turned to stone. Ziio. Ziio! By God, it was her! But… she was bleeding. There was… there was lots of blood. She had left no tracks in the snow, only a trail of red. She had been shot – in the chest, too – her clothes soaked with blood from a gushing wound._

_He made to reach for her, to touch her, to _help _her, but as soon as his fingers reached her falling form, there was only darkness._

Haytham woke covered in a cold sweat. He was not one to suffer night terrors, and certainly not about people he barely knew. He knew he oughtn't to have been frightened, but there was a certain degree of terror in him that even he could not explain. The image of mauled Ziio was stuck fast in his mind, and of the freezing infant. He slowly sank back down against the pillows, his head thumping painfully. He reached for the pitched beside his bed, his mouth suddenly parched. God knows how much longer he could take the thought of the damned woman. He didn't have time to be worried about people.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kaniehtì:io**

_When had men become so bloodthirsty? I have seen wars fought between my people and others, I have seen feuds between men and women, but never on such an enormous scale. I have never seen the likes of this before in my life. Such bloodshed – thousands of innocent men, women and children dead for a cause no more justified than that which they fight to put down. It sickens me, and I hope I can keep Ratonhnhaké:ton from it for as long as I can manage. But that won't be long, no matter how much I try to shelter him. At times I find myself wishing Haytham was here again – he was a warrior more than I, though you wouldn't think so to look at him. I grow weary._

* * *

Ziio was not woken by birdsong or docile movement outside the longhouse – she was woken by sounds of shrieking and crying outside. Golden light splashed across the earth, though Ziio knew it was too early in the morning for there to be sun. She was immediately vigilant as the sound of crackling flames reached her ears. She fumbled about blindly for her son, scooping up the drowsy child into her arms.

The voices outside burst forth in harsh tones – Englishmen. What were Englishmen doing in the village? The sound of firing muskets split the air, and Ziio knew immediately that she had to escape.

Darting out of the longhouse, Ratonhnhaké:ton still clasped firmly against her chest, she tried to look through the smoke for an exit. One of the longhouses nearby had caught on fire, sending huge orange flames blistering into the sky. The slushy mud reflected the light, causing the ground itself to look as if it too had caught flames. She ignored the water sinking through her boots as she splashed through the puddles and the mud, squinting against the bright light and choking smoke belching forth from the burning thatching. Bayonets glinted in the firelight, though there were far fewer than she had anticipated: the number, however, did not matter. A single knife was enough against an unarmed woman and a child.

Putting her head down, Ziio bounded for the nearest exit in a desperate bid to flee from the chaos around her. Mothers were screaming and calling for their children, unsure where to go or what to do. Ziio would have saved them, if she could have, but she couldn't. And so she ran.

The air cleared once outside the boundaries of the walls, and even then she did not stop running. Her powerful legs propelled her through the deep snow drifts, but still she could hear her pursuers. When had they caught on to her escape? Many questions ran through her mind, but she ignored them, knowing she had to focus. _Just focus._

The air burned in her lungs, each inhale like swallowing thorns. The air was freezing and dry and tasting of smoke, but her body had overtaken her mind, and she moved seamlessly and thoughtlessly. Where was she going? Dawn had shed a little light on the wilderness, but Ziio found herself in unfamiliar surroundings even so. Trees whipped past her like huge, looming figures, their fingers outstretched and intertwined to create a great latticed sky above her. The men chasing her began to call and yell out to her, but she blocked out their harsh, foreign voices. A few shots were fired into the air, evidently meant to frighten her, but still her pace didn't falter. She'd been in far worse situations.

Winter in the valley was harsh and unforgiving; the villagers kept to their huts for a reason, only leaving the village to forage and hunt. If she could only lose them, perhaps she could escape into the safety of the forest's clutches and wait awhile until this episode had passed over before returning home. The thought was a hopeful one, but it ignited no motivation in Ziio. It seemed too distant a possibility.

As her attention waned, she stumbled slightly over a tree root hidden under the snow. It was brief, but the men behind her gained a few more vital inches. They seemed to be gaining on her – indeed, their attire was more suited to chasing and fighting than hers was, but she had spent her life running and jumping, and was surely fitter than they.

With a sudden, dawning terror she realised that a great looming face of rock was coming up ahead – there was no way around it. A dead end.

Ziio's heart was racing, each muscle in her body screaming for reprieve. She could run along the cliff face, but that would only ensure her a faster death. She could try and dart past them, but that would be cutting it far too close. Alternative routes of escape filed through her mind, but to no avail.

She turned, breathing hard, feeling the cold, uneven rock pressing against her back. She kept her gaze even and steady, knowing that there was little more intimidating than a solid, fearless gaze. Her legs shook beneath her, and she found herself sliding down the rock face until she sat in the snow, holding Ratonhnhaké:ton to her chest. The boy had begun to cry, a small little noise that pierced the silence. One of them men levelled his musket.

"Noisy bloody thing," one of the men spat. "Better silence the mutt, eh?"

Of course she could never have expected any sympathy from these men. What sympathy would any bloodthirsty young man have for them? She was a wide-eyed woman with a child and yet they pointed guns at them with a smile. Ziio was disgusted, and stared down the barrel of the gun with a gaze they conveyed as much. If she was to die, she would not die a coward.


End file.
